Risen Flesh
by altairattorney
Summary: [Shivering Isles - Hill of Suicides quest] As my cursed spirit proves, He is not the god of laughter.


**Risen Flesh**

_Gadeneri Ralvel_

You are uncorrupted, wanderer.

Your shine is in contrast with this saddened ground; you are fresh and feeble like morning dew, that in the gardens I used to love so well. It takes guts, my friend, to roam these lands with a mind still clear like yours.

I wonder what brought you here. To me, it was the colours of this place. The twisted soul that lay beneath them, and was so like my own, meant nothing — I yearned for this sky, wanted to feel each petal between my fingers.

I wasn't ready yet. I was lost long before I knew.

Once you cross the doors of folly, there is no turning back. If it was a mistake, you will know no mercy — your heart will eventually rise over the sun, tinging your deepest wishes in blood.

I spied on the Red Mountain from the windows of my room. It showed among smoke and mist, just beyond the veil of this world — nothing, ever, I had wanted more than belonging there again.

I could almost touch that image. The flow of my thoughts felt seamless — in that moment I believed, I knew, my dagger would the one way to lead me back home. There was light in my eyes when my heart stopped.

The faded illusion made mine the bitterest awakening. I am still here. I left my brother behind.

Help me, good friend, to draw another path.

_Lorenz Bog-Trotter_

My mind may be healed, but my robes did not leave me. He wants me imprisoned, chained to my mistakes, till the ages themselves lose their meaning.

He is not His aspect, nor His voice; His fury has the terrible might of father Akatosh. Nobody can see it better than us — the servants of a lord equally divine and merciless, trying to warn the others of what was and will be.

Those who don't listen, we entrails will make up for their wrong doings, we used to say. Then again, the first time I performed a sacrifice, doubt was born inside me.

Doubt is crimson. It drips from invisible wounds, leaving no room for a blind creed like mine. I started to doubt all of Him — His motives, His lack of any, with the smell of dead things ever flashing in my nostrils.

I took care of the sanctuary that still holds my remains. The choice was mine — I got closer to the most repulsive beasts, so I could find the courage to become one of them.

All I had to do was pretend to be devoured, while my sword, hidden, sank in the mud. By my wretched brothers, I was buried with the utmost honour.

He still knows. He still holds me prisoner. As my cursed spirit proves, He is not the god of laughter.

_M'desi_

I gave in to the stench.

I was naïve, you see. Simple flesh like mine never gets saved. I am the soul that flees within the walls, with the fire of anguish in its eyes, while you fight the monsters in the bleeze. But you, yes, you have the eyes of one who knows. The signs never fade — you have been there and returned. It takes no less than you to walk the planes of Oblivion.

But maybe, the horrors of the Isles — maybe you don't know those yet. I was naïve, I followed their call. Their curse can so much more than their hunger. I was inside their den before I could tell. But then, then I knew it would be forever dark.

The lights tricked me, led me deeper in the mud. I only felt their horrid smell, and their steps coming for me — I imagined their fangs sink in my limbs, my fur torn by their claws, echoed and multiplied by fear.

They were coming for me, coming, louder and closer yet. I couldn't let them eat me alive.

I drank poison, bitter gift from the flowers of the Isles. My dead flesh killed all of them, in a slow agony, later. And I was lucky — my bones felt nothing while they were crushed by their teeth. But I beg you, friend, even from here; tell my Lord what he doesn't know.

I did not take my life. It was terror. Terror, deceit, and the horrid stench.

_Limark_

I went to die among the walls.

You would do it too — maybe you will, someday, charmed by the glistening lights. Maybe. The feet which led me in there walked differently than yours; knowledge was my treasure, curiosity my fever.

You might tread my path someday, but not like me; I already feel what you will not look for. Those who do not come for treasure, nor for fights, will hear the voice running in the stone — it speaks to all ears open on the past, with patterns left thousands of years ago.

I followed them with my fingers, invisible, terrified. They talked to me like no other had ever found out. They told me of all that was before us; they unveiled the secrets of my Lord, and his merciless rebirth.

I was in Milchar when I knew for sure. There was no staircase when I looked down to my future — I found a terrible vision instead, an ocean of blood, with ghosts of the past cycles prowling in its waves.

I could not bear so much horror, wanderer. I dived in it, just to have my skull crushed. But you, yes, you still have the chance — raise your eyes from the treasures, from the lies, and run away.

You can avoid the coming storm yet.

_Salonia Viria_

I never lied to anyone, pilgrim of Sheogorath. Not once I lied to myself. It was my fear of slander, in fact, to lead me here.

There is a silent agreement in the world we both came from; the whispers from the future, the ones that never ceased in my miserable soul, are forbidden like no other sin. My walk on Mundus was a long exile, a journey which, finally, ended in madness as my resting place.

You certainly know what it means. I was a true prophet, hated and feared as such.

But what you may not know, cursed mortal warrior, is how the flow on time warps and loses itself in the Isles. The signs assaulted me, broke my quiet life in New Sheoth, as those higher truths couldn't leave me alone.

Even where I was well-loved and trusted, very few believed me. But you will learn, o miserable brother, the curse of this realm — the future happened too many times, and the present chases itself endlessly.

My Lord curses me for no reason, as he knows better than me. I took my life as soon as I understood; I wanted to avoid that end, the very end he is bound to submit to. You, though — you shine in other colours than him. You are not as blind as our God.

If you come back to the Hill, wanderer, we will bestow a gift upon you. More than any other aid, you need ours here and now. For I see, in you, the possibility of making the change — if only you could read it across me, beyond my sealed lips.

Maybe, unlike us, you will find the way. We ask you to try. Do search for your potential.

Because, truly, you would never guess what you have the power to become.


End file.
